Brian McClellan: Hope’s End

Captain Verundish contemplated killing herself.

The pistol sat in her lap, the muzzle loaded, the flint cocked and the pan primed.

It would be a simple thing to put the barrel in her mouth, angle it upward to her brain, and pull the trigger. Some poor infantryman would have to clean the blood and bits of bone off the back of her tent—or maybe they’d just take it down and burn it. Her body would be sent back to Adro, where…

Well, why concern herself with the details? None of it would matter to her.

She wrapped her fingers around the butt of the pistol that had belonged to her grandfather, the grip worn and smooth to the touch, and she was glad that she had so little family left behind to mourn her. Would they mourn her after she took the coward’s way out?

Would Genevie remember her mother?

A letter lay on the table beside her cot. The sender was a man who legally called himself her husband, but had no further claim to that position beyond the letter of the law. Verundish wanted to burn the letter and erase everything it said.

A familiar voice called out a greeting to someone else outside her tent. Verundish shoved the pistol beneath her pillow and brushed flecks of gunpowder off her lap just as a man threw the tent flap aside.

Captain Constaire ducked inside, removing his hat with a flourish. He was a tall man, willow-thin with long brown hair tied back over one shoulder and the playful eyes of a prankster. He wore thick mutton chops that touched the corners of his lips and his uniform hung loosely from his wiry frame.

He stepped over to her and bent low, kissing her on the mouth, smothering her protestations. She found herself kissing back after a moment, and far too soon Constaire pulled away, a grin on his face. “Love,” he said, “I’m just stopping by on my way to see General Tamas.”

Verundish raised her eyebrows. “The promotion?”

“I think so,” Constaire said. He drew up to his full height, his head pushing up the top of her tent, and mimed as if he were throwing a cape over his arm. “The next time we meet, I shall be Major Constaire.”

Verundish leaned back on her cot and regarded the man. “You’re a fool.”

“But you love me anyways.”

“I’m not a smart woman.”

He paused, as if he sensed something amiss. “Verie?”

She gave a slight shake of her head to warn him off asking. He ignored her.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me. Was it another letter?” his eyes went to the envelope on the table beside her cot. “That bloody bastard! What does he want this time? Is Genevie all right?”

“It’s nothing,” Verundish said quietly. Constaire was not making this easy. Better if she had no lover, no one to worry over her death. It would make things simple. She took a deep breath and reminded herself that this was only a soldier’s love. Eventually, the campaign would end and they’d both return home. Constaire would find a younger woman, and Verundish would go back to a cold house with a hateful husband.

Well. She wouldn’t have to go back if she killed herself.

Constaire threw himself to one knee. “Divorce him,” he said. “Marry me. I’m about to be made major. We could return to Adopest and take Genevie away from that monster.”

Oh, this fool. He only twisted the knife. “You’re not serious.”

“I am. Deadly so.”

If only it were so easy. But life, as her mother had always told her, was never easy. “He wants a divorce even more than I do,” Verundish said.

“Perfect! Apply for a divorce and marry me.”

“You know who my father is?”

Constaire seemed taken aback. “He’s a priest, I think you said.”

“Yes. He’s the priest who married us, and he’d have to sign the papers to authorize my divorce.”

Constaire’s face fell and he rocked back from his knees into a sitting position on the floor of her tent. “And he doesn’t believe in divorce. Is that it?”

“He thinks it’s a sin against Kresimir. He thinks it is better I weather this marriage of mine, with a husband who cheats and steals and lies and threatens to beat my daughter, than go through with a divorce.”

“I’m sorry to say it, my love, but your father is a fool.”

“I know. I’ve told him that to his face. Now you’ll be late to see the general. You better go.” She leaned forward and touched his knees, then ran a thumb across his cheek. “Come back when you’re finished and we’ll celebrate.”

Constaire left the tent with the spry step of a young man whose world was covered in gold. Verundish kept the smile on her face until he was gone, and then let it slide away like a weathered mask.

She picked up the letter and read the last paragraph.

Your father will still not grant us a divorce. I intend to wed my mistress by the end of the year. Either ensure our divorce or kill yourself. If I’m not rid of you within three months I will sell the girl to a Starlish slaver.

She had no idea how much time had passed, but Verundish was still staring at the letter when she heard Constaire’s voice call her name from outside the tent. She stirred, and registered the distant thump of Adran artillery as it pounded the Gurlish stronghold of Darjah. She could hear the clamoring of her fellow soldiers as they prepared the evening meal.

She had meant to be wearing considerably less when Constaire returned. She struggled to bring a smile to her face. It was the least she could do.

Wait. Something was wrong. Constaire never called her by her full name. He was the only one in the army with the gall to call her ‘Verie.’ He was the only man in the army she would allow to do so. And she couldn’t remember the last time he had asked before entering her tent.

“Come,” she said.

Constaire lacked his normal smile, and his eyes were sightless and haunted as he slipped inside. Verundish had seen a similar look on men who had lost a limb to cannon fire or watched a friend gunned down beside them.

“What’s wrong?” she said, tucking her own troubles into the back of her mind. Time enough to shoot herself later tonight, after Constaire had left.

“May I sit?” he asked. His eyes didn’t meet hers.

Verundish remembered all of the times he had swept into her tent and taken her in his arms, throwing them both down onto the cot in a fit of laughter. Her concern deepened. “Of course.” She straightened the blankets, and as she did she slid the loaded pistol beneath her pillow to a better hiding spot under her cot.

Constaire lowered himself onto the cot beside her. She took his hand, noting the way his tender white skin contrasted so deeply with the black roughness of her fingers. Constaire had never worked a day in his life, but Verundish did not hold it against him. It was his carefree attitude that had attracted her in the first place.

“They’ve chosen me to lead the Hope’s End against Darjah,” Constaire said.

Verundish’s breath caught in her throat. “No. I thought you were being considered for promotion!”

“If I survive, I’ll be a major.” The ghost of a smile crossed his lips and disappeared. He bent his head forward as if to pray.

Hope’s End. The leading charge against an enemy’s stronghold. The first through the breach—facing fixed bayonets, cannons, and sorcery. Members of the Hope’s End rarely survived the first volley, let alone the capture of the fortress itself.

“There’s nothing you can do?” Verundish asked.

Constaire shook his head. “The order came directly from General Tamas. I think,” his eye twitched, “that he does not like that my father bought me this commission.”

General Tamas was infamous for his belief that rank should be earned, not bought. He often put nobles in a place of danger in order to test their mettle. His stance had benefited the commoners beneath his command, and the men loved him for it. But this was going too far. Constaire would die.